Exercises in Deduction
by Pompey
Summary: A couple of short stories focusing on deductions made by Canon-characters other than Holmes. More to come . . . eventually. CHAPTER 4: Hey, KCS, remember that Hopkins challenge from way back when? This is it -- just for you! ;
1. Eliminating the Impossible

Inspector Lestrade found himself in somewhat of a snit as the cab rattled back to Scotland Yard. Sympathies with the criminals indeed! Well, he couldn't really blame Holmes. He himself was not as keen as he might be about finding the murderers. Of course, _he_ wasn't a private investigator with the freedom to pick and choose among cases. Lestrade sighed. Such was the lot of an official.

He let his mind drift over the facts of the case. A known blackmailer dead. His papers burned. Two men. Footprints found. Descriptions of both, but more detailed on the shorter one. No sign of forced entry. That last part was odd. Undoubtedly Holmes would have made something of that, if he had taken the case.

Now, that was odd too. Even granting Milverton's reputation, the little inspector knew Holmes well enough to know that the more singular the case, the greater the challenge. And Holmes had always reveled in challenges.

Two men. One tall, thin, and overly active. The other shorter, more heavily built, strong enough to scale a wall and fight back when grabbed.

_My sympathies are with the criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this case_

_It's likely __the criminals were men of good position_

_That's rather vague . . . It might be a description of Watson!_

No.

Oh no.

Oh surely not.

But then, hadn't the doctor seemed less than amused when Holmes made that observation about the description of the second man? It could be chalked up to any man's natural dislike of being compared to a murderer on principle and yet . . .

Hadn't Holmes been strangely adamant about not taking the case, and before he knew all the particulars? Surely there was more to it than Milverton's reputation.

It wasn't as if the pair of them were strangers to breaking the law when it suited their needs. Lestrade suddenly remembered that Cadogan West case with the stolen government plans. Holmes and Watson had burglarized Oberstein's home and had frankly admitted it to him. Lestrade's own words from that time came back to him now:

_We can't do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes. No wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these days you'll go too far and you'll find yourself and your friend in trouble._

And wasn't there trouble now!

If he were to go back to Baker Street and peer into the fireplace, wouldn't he find the charred remains of two black masks? If he were to check all their footwear, wouldn't he find two pair of boots with the mud of Hampstead Heath clinging to them? Wouldn't those boots match the prints found all around Appledore Towers? Would Watson's ankle bear the faint bruises of an iron-fisted gardener?

No. Probably not.

Lestrade knew, better than most, what sort of mastermind Sherlock Holmes would have made, had he turned that great brain of his to crime. If the inspector _were_ to go back to Baker Street, all he would find were a freshly swept fireplace and newly cleaned shoes. Hardly incriminating. Perhaps their boots would match the prints on the heath but then, what of that? Surely they were not the only men in London to have purchased those styles and brands of boots! And the doctor could just as easily have bruised his ankle from tripping over something in that death-trap they called a sitting room.

Lestrade groaned dismally. Perhaps there was time to shift the case to Gregson's workload.


	2. Studying Mankind

STUDYING MANKIND

"That man there, Sherlock, in the green jacket."

"The carpenter?"

"Indeed, specializing in wood carvings."

"Carvings of some intricacy and detail, I should imagine."

"Not currently married."

"I cannot think he was ever married."

"But quite content with his housekeeper."

"And with his residence near Fleet Street."

"He does not want for business."

"Yet I daresay he would not hesitate to take on a new client or two."

I rolled my eyes in exasperation. For nearly an hour now my friend Sherlock Holmes and his brother Mycroft had been seated in the bow-window of the Diogenes Club, engaged in deducing all manner of life-facts of passers-by – or "studying mankind," as they called it. At first, I had found their pastime entertaining. I followed along as best I could, challenging myself to make silent deductions before either brother could, or, upon failing that, to see what evidence lay behind their deductions.

After a while, though, it had become tedious work and I found myself imitating a model member of the Diogenes Club, despite our seats in the Stranger's Room. To my relief, neither Holmes noticed my lack of attention, so intent were they upon their studies. I much preferred boredom to the inevitable embarrassment for both sides should they realize my state of mind.

Even so, a man can count the ceiling tiles only so many times before he loses patience. It was with difficulty that I suppressed a groan when Mycroft continued, "Now, that woman in black with the valise is a curious specimen."

"A recent widow."

"Oh, not so recent as all that, Sherlock. Six months at least."

"She was left in comfortable means, at any rate."

"Which she fears are about to come to an end."

"Fortunately she possesses an eminently practical and sturdy nature with which to face the adversity."

"Do not forget her independence, brother."

"True. She is not opposed to doing honest work."

"If it should come to that, anyway. She seeks to sell the family silver first."

"Nevertheless, she has been to the more unsavory parts of the West End."

"She fears for her baby's future well-being."

"In addition to her own, no doubt."

"No, I don't think so."

Two pair of piercing gray eyes turned to stare at me in surprise. Either they had forgotten my presence until I spoke or they were unused to being contradicted. Perhaps it was both. "You doubt she worries for her future well-being?" Mycroft inquired, politely.

"It may cross her mind upon occasion but that is not what occupies her thoughts at the moment. Indeed, I should say barely half of what you proposed is accurate," I concluded with a sip of my whisky and soda.

If I had surprised them before I astonished them now. My friend's eyebrows seemed in danger of flying off his face while his brother's mouth had gone quite agape. They exchanged round-eyed looks before turning their respective attentions to me, which I found mildly unnerving. Then Mycroft grinned.

"Very well, Doctor," he said, kindly but unquestionably challenging, "would you be so good as to share your deductions?" Sherlock's matching smirk unnerved me further, despite my convictions that I was right about the woman in black.

"Certainly. First, however, I should like to see if I follow the reasoning behind _your_ deductions." At their assent, I continued. "Her clothing was of good material, but of a dull black color relieved by only hints of white trim at her collar and cuffs. This would indicate a widow just now transitioning into half-mourning. That she is of a practical and independent nature is judged by her upright carriage and resolute air, as well as her choice of heavy boots. The mud-splatters on her boots and the edge of her hem that indicate she has come from the West End. The large, bulging, black valise she carries and black smudges on her fingertips told you she had recently polished silver, and that she is seeking to sell it. Her sadness and fear for a very young child was apparent when she stopped and observed a baby carriage. There was grief on her features and she bit her lip in agitation."

"Well done, Watson," Holmes murmured, smiling with a hint of vicarious pride.

"But you say that you do not agree with our conclusions?" Mycroft persisted.

"Not all your conclusions, anyway," I replied, warming to my topic. "She is, in fact, a woman doctor. Her practice, such as it is, is primarily in the West End. The child she worries for is her patient, not her offspring, whom she has examined at least an hour ago. The prognosis is not good. I might even venture to say the child has severe conjunctivitis."

I took another sip of my drink in an effort to hide my self-satisfied smile at the reaction of the brothers. Mycroft spluttered into his own drink and for a moment Holmes was speechless. Then he made a soft scoffing noise.

"Oh come now, Watson! Conjunctivitis?"

"Well, I don't insist upon it, though it is the mostly likely diagnosis."

Mycroft had recovered himself, as well as his good humor. "Doctor, I must admit I find myself a trifle out of my depth, and so will Sherlock if he is an honest man, and that takes some doing. However did you deduce the lady was a doctor?"

Again I fought down a smile. "It was really quite . . . elementary." I glanced at Sherlock Holmes, who grimaced but gestured for me to continue. "Society has not yet accepted the merits of women in the field of medicine. I have often heard colleagues remark that such women are inferior healers, that they are mad, or adventuresses. Often female doctors are forced to practice their trade in slums and charities, such as those found in the West End. The lady in question seeks a respectable appearance, hence her plain and sober clothing. The dark colors also disguise the grime she accrues in the area, evidence of her practical nature as are her boots. The valise she carried is a more feminine version of a doctor's black bag, making her occupation far less obvious and shielding her from insults or worse as she travels. Even so, I saw the bulge in the leather case was from her stethoscope."

"A shabby way to treat her instruments," Holmes commented.

"No shabbier than the way some of her peers treat her," I responded.

"If she had been in the West End, it was undoubtedly because of a patient," said Mycroft. "And that she worried over a very young child was obvious, we may all agree upon that. I presume, Doctor, that these are what caused you to say the prognosis for the child is not good. But how did you determine conjunctivitis was the child's condition?"

"The silver nitrate smudges on her fingertips. It takes an hour for the nitrate to react to darken the skin. And really, Holmes, after seeing the same discolorations on my own hands time after time, I'm surprised you misidentified it as silver polish."

Mycroft laughed aloud and Holmes had the grace to look abashed.

"That may be so, Watson," he replied with dignity, "but the silver nitrate marks on your hands are never spread across your fingers in the manner that it was on the lady's, whereas silver polish creates similar patterns."

"You say that only because you have never seen me after attempting to put drops of silver nitrate into the eyes of an uncooperative child," I replied seriously. "Silver nitrate is the usual remedy for infant conjunctivitis, which is abundant this season. Unfortunately, the treatment for the lady's patient may have come too late. People of limited means often delay medical treatment until all other recourses are exhausted. By then, there is often very little even the most skilled doctor can do."

There was a melancholy around us when I stopped speaking. Holmes moved to refill our glasses and we sat in silence for a moment. Then Mycroft stirred.

"It seems, Sherlock, you shall have to watch yourself, lest you find yourself rooming with a rival detective," he teased. As I demurred, laughing, Mycroft cut me off. "No, Doctor, you have proven you are quite as adept at studying mankind as either of us. Now," he grabbed my arm and turned me towards the window again, "what do you make of that brick-layer's companion?"

I was uncertain of which man on the sidewalk was the brick-layer but was loath to admit it. I sent Holmes a pleading look around Mycroft's bulk. He responded by grinning at me mischievously and shrugging, as if to say I heartily deserved whatever discomfort was forthcoming and that I would be receiving no aid from him.

I should have kept quiet and counted the ceiling tiles again.


	3. Turnabout is Fair Play

The reaction was well on Holmes the next day. He lolled in his chair, limp as a rag, after picking at breakfast. Watson had risen earlier and was gone already – no doubt part of his day's activities would involve a call paid to Miss Mary Morstan. Holmes sighed. In hindsight his initial reaction had been rather untactful but it was hard to retain tact when one's worst fears are confirmed.

What the devil had possessed that man? Of course, she appealed to his chivalrous nature but that couldn't be it alone. Watson had remained immune to the charms of innumerable female clients.

They did have much in common, from Indian experiences to lack of family. It certainly could have been the woman's character. She conducted herself with efficiency and composure, never in his presence giving way to hysterics or unnecessary ramblings. She had shown an unerring instinct for potential clues; really, she had been the model of an ideal client, save her seduction of one half of the agency.

No, even Holmes realized he was being melodramatic. But there was _something_, _something_ that had caused Watson to take his romantic tendencies a step further. Holmes thought back to just before Miss Morstan's appearance. They had been discussing how objects retain signs of their owners' characters, and Watson had pulled out his watch . . .

Could that have been it? Had Miss Morstan simply entered when Watson was psychologically and emotionally unguarded? The death of his brother had been an unhappy one, and obviously the grief was still fresh if his reaction was anything to go by.

Now that was odd. Holmes hadn't noticed it before – perhaps there was merit in the doctor's condemnation of cocaine – but how had the existence and death of Watson's brother escaped him? While both of them were reticent about their families, Watson was less so. Holmes knew his friend's parents were both deceased and that he had no relatives in England though there was a branch or two of cousins in Scotland. He had made no mention of siblings.

To be fair, Holmes had said not a word about Mycroft until a few months ago, and that at Mycroft's insistence on meeting the man who seemed so bent on chronicling the work of his younger brother. That would have been the prime opportunity for Watson to mention his own older brother and yet he had remained silent. Why? And for that matter, why did it take a watch to alert him to the fact that Watson even _had_ a brother?

When they had first met, Holmes had been more interested in teasing out clues about the doctor himself than his family history. After a time, it never even occurred to him to ask about Watson's immediate family – he had simply noted a lack of correspondence and a lack of conversational references, and left it at that. It was not an immediate, pressing element of a case and so Watson's family or lack thereof was never forefront in his brain.

So. Having established his negligence as a detective and as a friend, Holmes turned his mind to the problem of how he had missed the signs of Watson's brother's death. Watson had said the watch "had recently come into his possession" and yet even the newest scrapes and dents on the watch had been well over a year old. Watson had also said the watch had been cleaned _before it was sent to him_ – a vital clue. Watson had not been the one to go through his late brother's estate. Inference: Watson and his brother had lost connections for some time and his brother died outside of England. Outside of the Island, more than likely, because Holmes simply could not see his friend hesitating to go to his brother, despite any falling-out. And it had taken some time to track Watson down as the next of kin, as he had not seen Watson put on mourning. It was possible Watson had simply opted to not to wear mourning; he had the right to, especially if his brother had passed away some time ago (1).

But how, _how_ could he have missed seeing Watson's reaction when he received word that his brother was dead? His friend's thoughts and emotions were as plain as newsprint. There was no possible way Watson would have been able to hide such a blow from him. Unless . . .

Unless he was away when the blow came. That case in France that had tested even his iron constitution last year, the case that had kept him out of England for two months. That was when the news had come. It had to be. And if what he had deduced about Watson's brother were true, the estate would have been in such a dreadful muddle it would have taken months to sort it out, delaying Watson's coming into the watch.

Holmes snarled at his own slowness. Of course Watson was reticent about his brother. Anger and shame, guilt and grief, these had sealed his lips against sharing confidences. And like a clod, he had airily tossed out deductions about his friend's brother without care or discretion. He did not blame Watson one jot for his reaction; at least he had recognized his mistake at the time and apologized for it.

And yet the apology seemed so paltry in hindsight. Holmes knew Watson had put the episode behind him. Even so, turnabout is fair play. As galling as it was at first thought, he thought he knew of a way to make it up to the doctor.

* * *

I returned from Camberwell late that afternoon. Mrs. Hudson assured me that tea would be laid out for Holmes and me shortly. The day had been a tiring one and I was glad to make my chair in the sitting room my next destination. I had not realized what work it was acquiring a private practice at a reasonable price and desirable location; it was fortunate I had begun my search early. Even so, my relief was mingled with dread. I knew Holmes's opinion of my engagement and had little doubt he would greet me with keen-eyed deductions and sardonic comments – I had indeed paid a visit to Miss Morstan today. Then, too, I worried that during my absence Holmes had indulged in narcotics.

To my abject relief, Holmes was scraping away on his violin at the window, no sign of needle or bottle anywhere. He turned at my entrance and favored me with a piercing look that scanned me head to boot-tip. I braced myself for whatever caustic observation he cared to throw at me. Instead, Holmes merely quirked an eyebrow at me in a knowing manner. Then he finished his solo with a flourish and lowered both bow and fiddle.

"So, Watson," he began amiably, "I trust you are not completely averse to investigating matters of mystery yet?"

"Of course not, Holmes. You know your cases are always of interest to me."

"I am glad to hear it. Sadly I have no case at present, merely an exercise in deductive powers and reasoning. What can you make of that?" Holmes gestured lightly with his bow to the couch, where lay a most unusual walking stick. Next to it was my friend's magnifying lens.

I found it curious that Holmes had not returned the glass to his pocket or his desk but I turned my attention to the walking stick. "How did you come by this?"

"Oh, I happened into it some time ago," replied he and took up his violin again, playing a light Continental tune while I commence my observations of the stick.

It was of a notable heft and a deep mahogany color, with a bust of Napoleon carved in intricate detail as the head of the stick. The wood where the hand would naturally grip the stick was worn to a fine patina and the base of the stick showed signs of heavy usage. When I applied the lens I saw there were minute flecks of color buried deep in the crevices of the carvings. Overall, it was an object of some bearing and wealth with the sort of ornate whimsy that was popular fifty or sixty years ago, and I said as much.

"I must say, Watson, your powers of observation leave little to be desired," Holmes said approvingly. "Now, what deductions can you draw from them?"

"Well, I should say the original owner of this stick was quite well-to-do."

My friend gave an undignified snort. "Come now, you can do better than that! Stop being so timid and trust yourself."

Thus goaded, as he no doubt meant me to be, I plunged ahead. "The owner was particularly fond of this stick. He was a Frenchman and a loyal Bonapartean, and an artist of some merit."

"Better, Watson, much better." Holmes halted his song. "Of course, you are still stating the obvious but tell me how you came to your conclusions."

"It is a stick of excellent quality that shows signs of wear but has been kept in good condition. The owner used it often but looked after it. The figurehead of Napoleon proves his nationality and political biases. There are flecks of pain deep in the grooves of the carvings which tell me he was an artist, for only an artist would be so careless as to handle a favorite and expensive stick with wet paint still on his fingers. And only an artist of appreciable talent could afford the luxury of such a stick."

"Perfectly sound," Holmes agreed. He put aside his violin and gently took back the object of my scrutiny. "You have grasped the essence of the trick; the only thing remaining is to polish and perfect your skills."

"There is one more observation I have left to share."

"And what is that?"

"The identity of the original owner himself."

"Indeed?" Holmes sounded encouraging but I fancy I detected a faint trace of superiority that irked me. "And who was this gentleman?"

"Horace Vernet . . . your maternal grandfather."

Holmes sent me a quick, peering look. "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

I merely smiled. "I followed the clues you deliberately left for me. The first one was that you had laid out your lens and the stick together. Usually when objects of interest come your way you do not leave your lens lying next to them when you have finished examining them. I deduced that you had deliberately arranged them for me for when I returned. Then there was your phrasing, when you said that you had 'happened into it.' People 'come upon' belongings but they 'come into' family inheritances. I also noted the care you took when handling the stick. It has personal meaning for you. Therefore, the stick is a family heirloom. Finally, when I first began to examine the stick, you played a song I recognized as a traditional French tune, and I remembered that you had said you are connected by blood to the artist Vernet. His lifetime corresponds perfectly with the age of the stick."

" 'pon my word, Watson, you have come along marvelously," Holmes said softly. "You are quite correct; I could not resist throwing out certain hints to guide your way."

At that moment Mrs. Hudson arrived with tea. I waited until she was finished laying it out before I added, "While I appreciate the gesture, Holmes, you did not have to try to make amends for that business concerning my family's watch. I harbor no ill will whatsoever. Indeed, I quite deserved it."

At that, my friend gave a start and stared at me. "I beg your pardon?"

I smiled and helped myself to the Earl Grey. "You arranged this little exercise in observation and deduction as an apology for your offhanded comments about my brother, a chance to 'even the score,' as it were."

"How on earth did you discover that?" Holmes cried. I laughed, for he sounded thoroughly put out that his ruse had been unearthed.

"Because only you, Holmes, would form an apology in such an obscure, turnabout manner," I chuckled.

* * *

(1) www-victoriana-com/VictorianPeriod/mourning-htm

Feb-April of 1887 seems to be the universally approved date for the French case mentioned in REIGATE. SIGN is set in July or Sept of 1888.


	4. Best Served Cold

It was a strange case, Inspector Hopkins had said. A reasonably young man, in the bloom of health, found stone dead by his housekeeper as she retired for the night. There was not a mark on the body. Hopkins examined the body and believed the rigor mortis present indicated Mr. Carrew had been dead for eight to ten hours but the housekeeper insisted he had been alive and well just four hours ago.

Hopkins took that as a reason to fetch Sherlock Holmes.

Intrigued, Holmes accepted the case . . . and asked Watson to come along.

"Oh . . . yes . . . certainly, Doctor, if you wish," Hopkins had stammered. His tone was polite but it was clear to all present that Hopkins would have preferred to take along only Holmes. But Watson, ever the gentleman, had graciously overlooked this.

Now Holmes rose from his examination of the body with dark look. "Strychnine poisoning," he reported briefly. "Watson?"

The doctor took Holmes's place on the floor and commenced an investigation of his own.

"Strychnine poisoning causes the muscle contractions and spasms prior to death," Holmes explained with, to his credit, only a hint of exasperation in his voice. "After expiring, there is an immediate pseudo rigor mortis. Watson, can you pinpoint the time of death?"

"It is a trifle difficult but I should say no more than three hours ago, possibly two."

"There now, Inspector, the housekeeper in question was accurate in her report. Now what remains is to identify how he came by strychnine and why."

Watson, in the meantime, had turned his attention to the sideboard where a particular little bottle had seized his attention.

Hopkins hesitated. "Well, I should say the poison was slipped into his food or drink for the purpose of murder."

Watson looked up from his find. "Why do you say that, Inspector?"

Hopkins blinked. "Well, obviously, the man was murdered!"

" 'Obviously?'" Watson scoffed gently. "The only thing that is obvious is that he died of strychnine poisoning."

"Well, Doctor," Hopkins retorted with some heat, "can you think of a scenario in which a man dies of strychnine poisoning without it having been murder?"

"Certainly," came the amiable answer. Watson gestured to the sideboard. "A tincture of strychnine is used to treat irregular heart beats and cardiac murmurs. The dosage is usually between 1.1 milligrams and 3.2 milligrams because as little as 5 milligrams can be fatal. Now, Mr. Carrew had within his possession such a tincture found in this bottle here, and next to it his physician's instructions to take the tincture only when symptoms arise.

"Here on the sideboard is also a letter from his physician, warning him in the strictest terms that the tincture is to be taken _only_ when symptoms are present and _not_ to take it as a daily prophylactic. 'I cannot emphasize enough the importance of adhering to the prescribed regimen,'" Watson continued, quoting from memory as he passed the letter to Holmes. " 'I will admit to having concerns to that effect after your consultation yesterday.' The letter was dated Tuesday, by the way."

Hopkins eyebrows shot up. "He was taking a strychnine tincture daily?"

"So it seems. Judging from the little amount left in the bottle, I'd wager he ignored that letter. Hypochondriacs often do. This case was a poisoning, I suppose, but I hardly think you can arrest Mr. Carrew for that now."

"That is an excellent point, Watson," Holmes said, finally dragging his attention from the papers in his hand. "I don't know that it can rightly be called a suicide either, as death was clearly the furthest from Mr. Carrew's goals."

The young inspector continued to look distressed. "The letter could be a ruse!"

"Oh, certainly," replied Holmes without rancor. "The easiest way to determine that would be to question the physician who supposedly wrote it. He will also be able to tell you if Mr. Carrew was that much of a hypochondriac or not. I trust you may handle that portion of the investigation without incident."

"Don't be too disheartened, Inspector," Watson offered in his most soothing manner. "All it takes is a little observation and deduction."


End file.
